Are we the product of our parents?

I write this as I am sitting here in my Uncle's living room with my parents. My mother is sitting next to me on the couch reading a newspaper, and my father is at the kitchen table, on the phone with his brother.

We (They mainly) have been staying with at my Uncle's house until their new apartment is ready to move in. They get to move into their apartment tomorrow. I'm surfing the net, ready other blogs, and it begins to irk me, to here my father sit on the phone and complain that his nephew that calls him every Friday has not called him this Friday, especially since he offered his to help them move in the following Monday.

My mom is sitting on the couch appearing to be carefree, when I know her mind is circling with a million and one thoughts. She is stressed. It is evident. Almost a year of court battles with the man who had "acted like her father", looking for a new home, without trying to disrupt the work/school lives of their families, a year of saving up money for a down payment, and still trying to provide her family with all their wants, she tries to stand tall like nothing is affecting her. The countless lines on her forehead, the bags under her eyes, and her red eyes from her sleepless nights tells it all.

I sit here and think. Am I like them?

Granted, their blood flows through my veins, and my faces steals features from theirs. But am I really like them.

My father claims I am very argumentative, but yet, he is the first one to throw the first shot. He sits around and complains, he is quick to make a fuss. He thinks he knows everything, he believes he knows all of the answers. I think the complete opposite. He doesnt do much. He helps keep maintain the house, the cars, he does all of the man stuff, like the men on those home improvement shows. I love my father, but at then end of the day, do I want a man like my daddy, no. Could I be a women married to my daddy, no. It seems wrong, but I just couldnt. Almost 22 years my parents have been together. My mom has always been the bread winner. My dad doesn't work. I can't remember when he last had a steady full time job. I do remember that when he did work on the book, his paychecks were far greater than my parents. I don't remember having a long steady, serious conversation with my father, before yelling and pandemonium break lose.

I don't remember the last time I told my dad I loved him. I don't the last time I gave him a hug. I love my father, I can tell that he loves me. He always brags to his friends about me, and how I'm doing, but the emotions we feel about each other are never translated to each other directly.

I remember the last time I told my mom I love her. I remember the last time giving her a hug. I speak to my mom daily. I call to check up on her and see how she is. Because of her, I know I am the person I am. She is strong, which makes me strong.

I dont know if I am just like my parents, I know I want more than they have, I know they want me to have more. I know they want the best for me, and because of them, I am going to strive for it.